5 Ways he Probably Didn't get Hired
by LeDiz
Summary: Five Ways that Tony DiNozzo probably didn't get hired by Agent Gibbs and NCIS. Fifth Way: You'd think it would be more glamourous than In the Meantime.
1. Transit Detail

_**Five ways Anthony DiNozzo probably didn't end up working for NCIS**_

**DISCLAIMER**: -shrug- What can I say? I felt like playing in new water. I don't think any of the following five chapters are likely. In fact, number three, I think it is, is enough to make me roll my eyes. But with NCIS, you never do know…

* * *

**1.** A traffic cop finally caught Jethro Gibbs.

Driving at sixty miles an hour on a forty mile an hour road probably hadn't been the best decision of his career – especially when not chasing anyone or even driving to a particularly pressing scene, so it was his good luck that he didn't get pulled over by some dumb cop.

Somehow, that made it all the more painful when he went back to his car and found the dumb kid crouched in front of it, staring at the licence plates.

"Can I help you, Officer?"

The kid looked up, preppy hair flipping back to his ear with the movement. He gave Gibbs one long look before standing up again and sliding his hands into his pockets. "What makes you think I'm an officer?"

"Either that or military," he said, and gestured to the kid's legs. "Steady stance."

"Could be a martial artist," he pointed out. Gibbs raised an eyebrow, and the kid shrugged, flashing an elastic smile as he pulled out his ID. "Or a cop. Tony DiNozzo, Transit Detail. That was a fun ride, back on Fifty-Seven… and that one bit where we were going eighty miles an hour was pretty impressive."

He just stared at him for a long moment. "Transit Detail."

"Yyyah," he said, and blinked once. "I said that."

"You're a traffic cop?"

"That's my reason for following you here, yeah."

Gibbs didn't stop staring. The kid was thin, but not in a way that had anything to do with his dietary habits. His shoulders were too broad for that; his neck too defined. His eyes were far too sharp to be wasted on road duty. "Attitude problem?"

"What with the whole completely ignoring the speed limit, I'd say yeah," DiNozzo said happily, then rolled his head back toward the car. "But hey, I figure you being a cop, you got a good reason. But I gotta tell ya, it's… I mean, yeah, that's what I'll say when I'm asked why I followed you, but the truth is just… wow."

"Cop, Detective DiNozzo?"

"You're packing heat," he said absently, crouching back down in front of the car and not-quite-touching the bumper. "You're not on duty – no one would waste this piece of heaven on a beat – but you're the type that… stays on duty… Man, but I'd kill for this car."

"Would you, DiNozzo."

"No. I'd kill for Magnum's red Ferrari, but this would… S'a beautiful machine. And the way she took those corners… At those speeds, I mean… mm!"

He hesitated, then smiled to himself and stepped forward. If there was one thing Burley had never been able to do, it was multi-task driving. The fact that this _kid_ could check out his car and probably Gibbs himself while going sixty miles an hour himself was a little impressive. "I might not be a cop. Could be a –"

"Bad guy, yeah, I know, but you're not," he said, and glanced up at him with another smile. "Real bad guys obey the speed limit. Don't wanna draw attention to themselves. You, in this baby… you don't care about who sees you. That makes you…" He paused, giving Gibbs another once-over with a knowing lift of his eyebrow. "A bad guy cop."

"Bad guy… cop."

"Ignore the rules because you don't have to care about the rules… you got some kind of law on your side. Not FBI, 'cause they give a damn about appearances. CIA doesn't like being noticed and…" He narrowed his eyes, and then turned back to the car. "Military. Ex, at least. Air force is uptight and the army wouldn't give the time that you give to this beauty. Navy?"

"NCIS. Navy cop," he confirmed, smirking to himself as he knelt down beside the cop. He fished out his badge, and DiNozzo glanced at it for a split second before going back to the car. Gibbs gazed at him for a longer second, taking in the whole image. This DiNozzo was clearly a better detective than Transit Detail allowed, meaning he was either a rookie or being punished. Judging from his age, Gibbs was guessing a little of the former with a whole heap of the latter. He raised an eyebrow at the expensive clothes, but chose to redirect his half-hearted interrogation, instead of commenting. "Since when does Transit Detail chase down speeding cars?"

DiNozzo grinned. "Since I wanted to see this baby up close."

"Don't you have a job to do?"

He glanced at him sideways, his head twitching slightly before he looked back at the car. "The Gypsy Cab I'm supposed to be chasin' down… three daughters, sick son… bitch of an ex-wife…"

"Having trouble getting a hold of him to arrest, huh?"

"Yeah. Slippery bugger," he said, and his eyes did an odd sort of flick before they both stood up and DiNozzo turned to look at him head on. "You shouldn't leave this car just hanging around on the street, Special Agent Gibbs. Never know when a Baltimore cop might decide it's stolen property and drive it away for impounding."

"No problem. I'd just shoot the LEO that tried," he said, and then gave him one last nod before pulling out his keys and starting for the driver's side door. "I'm more worried about getting the drool off."

DiNozzo grinned, offering him a sloppy salute as he walked backwards a few steps, then turned and started walking down the footpath. Gibbs hesitated, judging the carefully executed slouch for another second, then pulled out his mobile phone and dialled. "Hey, Abby, do me a favour. I want you to pull a file for me – Anthony D. DiNozzo; Baltimore PD. Have it ready for me when I get back."

* * *

_**See you next time, maybe?**_


	2. Undercover Smartass

_**Five ways Anthony DiNozzo probably didn't end up working for NCIS**_

**DISCLAIMER**: When you meet a stranger, it's almost always likely that you will forget them the next day. But sometimes… you don't.

* * *

**2.** He did work a few undercover ops, back in the day.

Despite being skinnier than any of the others, Barretta was clearly the muscle of the team.

A kind of bodyguard, Gibbs decided as he let his eyes casually flick over each of the little mob. He was leaning back against the wall in a slouch that was carefully designed to be both comfortable and the best starting point to attack from.

By all rights, Gibbs knew he shouldn't focus on the kid. As muscle, he was probably in on the team's secrets, but less likely to break in interrogation. Everything about this kid screamed mercenary: he would know valuable information, but wouldn't have a say in it, and wouldn't be willing to give it up without some form of payment. Therefore, Gibbs knew he should only keep an eye on him for safety reasons while he and Damon interviewed the boss.

For some reason, though, he kept finding his eyes drawn back to Barretta. The sunglasses had turned his way as soon as he stepped out of the car, and they hadn't moved since. It wasn't that, but there was still something… unnerving about him.

"Parsons," he snapped, and Damon looked up from his notebook.

"Yeah, boss?"

"You handle Marinetti."

Damon blinked, glancing across the road to the cafe. "You sure, boss?" he asked, and then looked back with both eyebrows raised. "These guys are pretty big league. I'm more crime _scene_ than interrogator."

"I don't have room for specialists on my team, Parsons," he snapped, and narrowed his eyes when Damon avoided his gaze. "You want to stick to what you're good at, you can go back to Miami and your useless little unit. You want to be useful, you go over there and handle Marinetti."

"Yes, boss," he muttered, slinking under Gibbs' glare to start across the street. Gibbs scowled as he followed, then looked up at Barretta again. The sunglasses hadn't moved, but the kid's head had. Instead of resting back against the wall, it had moved forward to focus on him more bluntly.

Gibbs had gotten information on this entire gang from the Baltimore Narcotics Unit. The Detective in charge, a sergeant with more medals than brains, by all reports, had insisted that the gang was trash, but wouldn't have had a hand in the kidnapping Gibbs was investigating. He wasn't so sure – civilian cops hadn't earned his respect lately.

The information on Barretta had been sparse, at best, but filled with obscure information. Things like his favourite food were listed, while the other gang members were profiled on family, connections and religious beliefs. Maybe that was why he made Gibbs twitchy, but he didn't think so.

"Hey, look, we got us some bacon coming our way," another gang member – Francisini, if Gibbs remembered the profile – stood up to greet them. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Sit down, Franky," Marinetti said coldly. "These aren't police officers. Right, senor?"

"That's right," Damon said, pulling out his badge. "Agent Damon Parsons, NCIS."

"The IAB of Navy," Romano, the lackey of the team, provided.

"I don't believe we've done anything to warrant your attention, senor," Marinetti murmured. "But it seems you want ours."

Damon coughed and stepped forward, but Gibbs only listened with half an ear as he stepped up into Barretta's personal space. The kid didn't so much as shift, but the light shifted on his sunglasses so Gibbs could see his eyes. They weren't even looking at him any more, instead focussed on his boss. Gibbs tilted his head, intrigued.

"Anton," Marinetti said suddenly, and the kid pushed off the wall, gracefully sidestepping Gibbs to stand in front of his boss. Marinetti continued gazing at Damon as he spoke. "You… spoke to the captain these men are looking for. Perhaps you'd like to enlighten them as to his current whereabouts."

The kid slowly turned, looking back at Gibbs for a moment before focussing on Damon. "I don'no," he said, his accent thick enough to slur it all into one word. "We did some business, he wanted out too late, we had a conversation, he agreed to finish the transaction, we parted ways."

"What transaction?" Gibbs asked quietly, his eyes flicking down to the kid's hips as he shifted his weight before answering.

"Business transaction."

"You might want to be a little more specific," Damon said, casually flicking back his jacket to show his gun, but Barretta didn't seem to notice.

"A private, perfectly legal business transaction that I weren't a part of," he said, and glanced back at Gibbs before continuing. "I just talked to the guy. You wan'a make something of that, you go right ahead, 'cause I ain't done nothin' wrong."

"When was this?" Gibbs asked, and again, the kid shifted very slightly in response.

"Couple days ago. Last I saw him, he was talkin' to that dumb traffic cop." He paused, then tilted his head back to Gibbs. "One Antony DiNozzo. Som'in' about… some car his kid stole. Di'in have nothin' to do wi'me, so I backed out."

"Anthony DiNozzo," he repeated, and Barretta turned to look at him face on.

"An-_to_-ny Di_Not_-zo," he corrected, and the gang all chuckled.

"He's a friend of Anton's," Marinetti explained. "What do they call them where you come from, Anton? Blood traitors?"

Barretta didn't answer, just backed up to the wall and leaned back against it. "Whatever. You want your captain, you talk to him."

* * *

Damon groaned as they walked into the apartment, wincing at the sight of three-day-old pizza and hamburger wrappings scattered across the floor. "Thought we were walking into an interview, not another crime scene." 

"Spread out," said Gibbs, tilting his head at the entertainment system, which had the centrepiece of a record player. They'd talked to Sergeant White about DiNozzo, and the detective had broken into a faked coughing fit as soon as the guy's name had come up. All reports said he was the type of cop that was too good to fire, but too dangerous to keep. That was why he'd been busted down to transit detail these past few months – he was a homicide detective that didn't know that a live victim meant it wasn't his business.

"_Smart kid, but… still a kid. Don't mention the words 'cowboy', 'Magnum' or 'car'; try to stay away from the topic of music, and never let him get started. Keep to those rules, try not to kill him, and he'll probably be useful,"_ White had advised._ "And, uh… Never get between an Italian and his pizza."_

"Clear," Damon sighed as he walked back from the bedroom. "In a manner of speaking. This kid's gonna catch the plague one day. It's disgusting."

"That's what antibiotics are for," Gibbs muttered, now exploring the bookshelf. A whole collection of dirty magazines (many of them classics that Gibbs could remember buying before this kid had probably even been out of elementary school) a ridiculous amount of CDs (jazz covered a good portion of them) old tapes of recorded television, each carefully labelled (now Gibbs could see why 'Magnum' had been a word to avoid) and several books on cars and biographies. It was… an odd collection.

"_Not a soul can bust this team in two, we stick together like glue!_" The voice was oddly familiar, but Gibbs and Damon both pulled their Sigs and spun around to face the door as it opened. "_When it's sleeping time, that's when we rise… we start to sing… clocks don't chime, what a surprise_ – uh – you coulda called before breaking into my apartment," the voice added, a Long Island accent the only colouration as Barretta stepped around the door, holding a bag of groceries in one hand and a denim briefcase slung over the other shoulder. He gazed at their guns for a moment, then shook his head and turned for the kitchen. "_They ring, a-ding-ding – happy new year, me_."

"Barretta?" Damon prompted, but Gibbs snorted.

"DiNozzo," he corrected, putting his gun in its holster. "An undercover cop."

"You are correct, sir!" DiNozzo called from the kitchen. "Though it's Di_No_zzo. The whole proper pronunciation thing bugs me. Bad experience with mob bosses and that name. Funny story, actually –"

"Have anything to do with my case?" Gibbs asked, as DiNozzo swung out of the kitchen to lean on the doorframe, now holding a carton of milk and a bread roll.

"Absolutely none."

"Then I don't care."

DiNozzo gazed at him silently for a moment, his whole body completely still, before he suddenly lunged off the doorframe to start moving and speaking a mile-a-minute again. "Okay. Captain Lewis wanted the wannabes – those guys I was with today – to take out his son's boyfriend. Had an issue with the whole don't ask, don't tell thing – hell, I've got issue with that, but it's not the same issue he had, and hey, I'm just the undercover muscle, not the judge. But I gotta tell, you Navy guys are totally screwing with your image –"

Damon looked around at Gibbs, who just waited until DiNozzo was walking past him before snatching the milk carton out of his hand as it was on the way to his lips. The detective stopped still again, looking at him appraisingly for a second, then nodded.

"Right. So he wanted the wannabes to take out this boyfriend, maybe rough up the kid. Just scare him back on the straight and narrow – can I have my milk back if I stay on track?"

Gibbs hid his smile, suddenly reminded of either Abby or a seven year old, but held the milk just out of reach. "Talk first."

"Right… He uh… uh… You're kinda scary, aren't ya?" He paused, his lips pulling up into a disturbing grin, before he continued. "Lewis got cold feet, so I was sent to point out that we were ready to do this, and he had better make up his mind or we'd just take the money without services rendered. What I actually told him was to go to hell, that I was a cop, and if he didn't back off and leave the poor kids alone, I'd arrest his ass along with the gang."

Gibbs handed back the milk, unable to help his smile at the dazzling grin he got in return before DiNozzo skulled several mouthfuls. He swallowed hard, blinked, and then continued. "We had a deal: he'd go undercover for us cops in exchange for no charges, but then he disappeared. I told Marinetti the cops'd got him, thinking he'd gotten cold feet again, but when I called in to ask my buddies to follow up, they said you NCIS guys were coming over. I'm guessing you know more of that part of the story than I do."

"You'd be right," he said, as DiNozzo ripped into his bread roll. "His son showed up at NCIS yesterday, saying both his parents went missing. The mother showed up last night, pretty traumatised."

"You get anything out of her?" he asked, and Gibbs tilted his head.

"Traumatised," he repeated.

"Yeah, heard you," he said around his mouthful. "Look, that captain was willing to mess up his kid, and as far as I could tell, he was pretty clean. I'm thinking he's one of those old patriarchs, you know? Perfect sailor, perfect wife, perfect family; no room for a gay son. Makes him a bastard, but I've never heard of one of those guys having too many enemies outside his own family. I'm thinking the wife knows something, and I want to know too."

"Not your case, DiNozzo."

"Yeah, heard that one too. Don't care." He gestured with his bread roll, rolling his eyes in point. "Lewis was made my business as soon as he approached my undercover. Hell, his disappearance might have something to do with my gang, which makes it my case. I don't really care either way, because the point is that I'm gonna dig into it whether you like it or not, so you might as well let me in."

Gibbs stared at him silently for a second, and then looked around at Damon, who was openly gaping at DiNozzo. Not that Gibbs could blame him – except for Abby and Ducky, most people didn't dare talk like that to Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. It was suicide. He looked back at DiNozzo, who was still patiently chewing away on his bread roll, waiting for an answer.

"Just what's a traffic cop doing undercover, anyway?" he demanded, and DiNozzo grinned.

* * *

_**Maybe see you soon?**_


	3. Drunk Investigator

_**Five Ways Anthony DiNozzo probably didn't end up working for NCIS**_

**DISCLAIMER**: This one is, without a doubt, the one I am most absolutely sure could not have possibly happened. Because not even Gibbs, the self- and Ducky-confessed lunatic, could hire someone based on the following scenario.

Seriously.

* * *

**3.** He has a habit of being at the wrong place at the right time. Or maybe it's the other way around…

Another month, another dead marine, another butt-load of witnesses that probably didn't see jack. Gibbs pulled himself up out of the car, suddenly very aware of the fact he hadn't slept in a bed in almost a week.

The crime scene was a bar, which accounted for the vagueness of dispatch's report. "Two victims, marines, one civilian perpetrator, one and a half bodies." It had been too early in the morning for Gibbs to ask for more details, and he hadn't realised that he didn't know what 'one and a half' meant until Ducky asked whether they meant literally or figuratively. But the truth was now revealed: dispatch probably didn't know either, because bar crime scenes were always hell.

Damon was already there, talking to the Baltimore detective and laughing, and Gibbs felt the last of his patience disintegrate.

"Parsons!" he barked, and pretended not to notice that Damon rolled his eyes before cutting off his conversation.

"Boss," he greeted coolly.

Damon had only been on the team three months when Stan suddenly up and left, meaning he had been using Stan's coping mechanisms to ward off stress, and hadn't yet developed his own. That meant that when Gibbs got mad, Damon got bitchy, and if Gibbs had been in a better mood, he might have accepted it.

Right now, though, a marine had died in the middle of a crowded bar, and Gibbs didn't have time for Damon's PMS.

"You waiting for a gold-edged invite? What the hell's going on here?" he demanded, and Damon swallowed, glancing at the cop before stepping up to Gibbs.

"Two marines from rival units got drunk; one of them said something stupid, the other flipped out. Punched him into a table that cracked open his skull. He tried to run for it, a drunk off-duty LEO stopped him with _his_ fist. Pretty open and shut."

"You the LEO?" Gibbs asked the cop, who snorted.

"Like I'd waste my money on a joint like this," he said, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where a young guy with greasy hair was sitting in the gutter, nursing his right fist. "Anthony DiNozzo, Baltimore PD. Last I heard he'd been busted down to Transit Detail, but that was a few months ago… might be working cold cases now, for all I know."

"You didn't ask?" Gibbs snapped, and Damon scratched his temple with one finger.

"Figured you'd want me to shoot and sketch."

"Have you?"

Damon stared at him for another moment, then forced a smile and turned on his heel, brushing past the cop without a word. The detective grimaced, then caught Gibbs' glare and coughed. "I'll pass this on to you, then."

"Wasn't asking," he said, and the detective hesitated, then nodded and started back toward his car. Gibbs waited for the car door to slam before starting toward DiNozzo, who looked up with a bleary smile. Gibbs nodded his greeting. "You DiNozzo?"

"Detective Anthony DiNozzo: Baltimore PD's Cold Case Unit. NCIS Special Agent Somebody, I take it?"

"Yup," he said, and glanced around for a better seat before surrendering to the inevitable and sitting down on the footpath beside the detective. "Gibbs."

"Tony," DiNozzo said, and then groaned and rolled back onto his elbows. "You want to start with what happened at the bar, why I was there, how drunk I am or whether I want a Union Rep?"

"You need one?" he asked, looking at him over his shoulder, and DiNozzo shook his head.

"I'm too drunk to realise, even if I did."

"Then let's start with what you were doing at a bar frequented by marines."

"It serves alcohol and I almost never have to work around here, meaning I don't have to worry about being recognised. I hit another dead frikking end on another cold frikking case and I don't get to get out of cold cases until I frikking solve one. I wanted a dry drink and a warm woman, so you'll damn well excuse me for going outside my frikking jurisdiction," he snapped, then closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again with a smile. "I mean territory, of course."

"Do you," he said quietly, and DiNozzo blinked at the response. Gibbs just returned his gaze, and DiNozzo sighed, rocking off his elbows again.

"I don't know if you've ever had to work cold cases, Agent Gibbs, but they suck. You spend weeks going over leads that other, better cops have already covered, going through evidence that other, worse cops have already tainted. And at the end of the week, even if you catch the bad guy, you find out you can't get him because of some goddamn technicality." He ran a hand back through his hair, and Gibbs got the sudden impression that that might have something to do with how greasy it was. DiNozzo shook his head with a shrug. "I went to a new bar in search of something new and successful. I was drinking the same old juice, but the woman was new and damn but I was successful with her until all… this."

Gibbs nodded, then looked up to meet his gaze. "How drunk are you?"

"On my way back to being sober," he said, and then grimaced. "Not the most credible witness, though. When I punched your guy, I'd had about six beers, which isn't much for me, but I haven't slept in like a week."

"Case that bad, huh?"

"Nah. Just sick of my partner, and I do my best work alone and at night," he said, and ran his hand through his hair again. "I was aware enough to know tackling him would have been a better option, but too drunk to not screw it up and end up bear-hugging the guy next to me."

"Okay." He made a note on his pad before looking up again. "Tell me what happened."

"Argh, the fight had been coming for like, what, ten minutes? That was why I was watching them and not the chick I was with. It started as a joke – they were all laughing, until it got real cold all of a sudden. The group shut up, and it was just the two of them –" He paused to gesture toward the ambulance. "– yelling. Not because they were drunk, but because they were angry. Your dead marine got to his feet, the other one stayed sitting for… maybe fifty seconds longer. Once he was up, his collar got grabbed, and he punched in response. Dearly departed fell back, hitting his head on the edge of his chair – it was definitely his chair, by the way, I saw it fall. Everyone around stopped partying to see if he was okay, but as soon as they saw he wasn't, the other marine tried to rabbit. I was sober enough to want to do my duty but too drunk to think of a good plan. I just stepped in his way and threw a punch for his nose. And he's a big guy – I figured he'd take the hit but stop. Didn't factor in how drunk he was, which is probably why I knocked him out. Didn't count on him being made of brick, though… think I've cracked some bone in here," he added, holding up his right hand to show off the still blossoming bruise.

Gibbs looked at it for a moment, acknowledging the injury with a smile. "Maybe not brick… just marine."

"Human freaking tanks," DiNozzo said bluntly, with a look that said it all meant the same thing.

Gibbs shrugged, smiling despite himself as he went back to his notes. "Got anyone who can verify?"

"Nngnn… I didn't catch her name, but the caucasian brunette with the blue eyes, about twenty-one, five-four, wearing some sparkly handkerchief thing for a shirt and black flares. She wasn't too happy that I was paying more attention to the Navy than her, but you can understand that –" He stopped, looking at Gibbs sideways to see if he'd gotten the reference, and grinned at Gibbs' returning glare. "–so she'll be happy to bitch about me as my alibi. The gruff-guy bartender was paying attention, even if he says he wasn't, and there was a fake-ID that was terrified a fight would start and he'd get involved. He's about six-two, red-blonde hair, lots of buckles on his leather jacket."

Gibbs finished taking notes, then looked at him suspiciously. "Pretty coherent for a drunk."

"I'm sitting down," he explained. "Soon as I stand up, you will see how very inebriated I am."

"Still. Observation skills are usually the first to go."

He shook his head slightly. "Self-control. Then fine motor skills. Then observation. Trust me. I have been researching my abilities when drunk very thoroughly for almost fifteen years now. I am proud to say that I may just be an exception to any textbook rule you give me."

"Huh…" Gibbs paused, looking out across at the Baltimore uniforms taking interviews. "So, Detective DiNozzo, you're telling me that you're only slightly drunk on six beers, after not sleeping for a week, took out a drunk marine with one swing and still have the observational skills of a finely trained cop. That's your story?"

He didn't answer for a second, his eyes rolling up in his head as he ran back over the statement. "Yyyes."

"Which makes you what, when sober?"

"Totally not capable of taking down a marine," he said firmly, and then grinned. "My first louie used to call me a terrier, if it backs up my story any."

"It doesn't."

"Oh yeah, that's tracking, not… uhh… I am still rather drunk, Agent Gibbs. I'm much more intelligent when I'm sober," he promised, then rolled back onto the concrete and used his left hand to fish through his pockets. Eventually he found his wallet in his breast pocket and held it up. "Business card's in there, private line on the back. I'll be back at work in a few hours, when you need to talk to me again, but feel free to talk to my answering machine at home if you'd prefer."

"Will do, DiNozzo," he said, taking the wallet to remove one of the cards. He slipped it into his notebook, then threw the wallet back onto DiNozzo's chest and hauled himself to his feet. "I can guarantee you'll be seeing me again."

"Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs stopped without even taking a step, and then looked over his shoulder. DiNozzo was gazing up at him with a surprisingly sober look of remorse.

"I could'a stopped it."

"You apologising for something?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Kinda."

Gibbs frowned, irritated but not sure why. "Never say you're sorry. It's a sign of weakness."

"Yeah, well… Strength would've been stopping it before anyone got hurt," he replied, and Gibbs could only stare at him for several long seconds.

"Then the marines should've stopped it. You aren't a marine."

"Nope. I'm drunk," he agreed, and then closed his eyes and lay back against the footpath. Gibbs frowned, then turned on his heel and headed into the crime scene.

Interesting kid. Drunk, but… interesting.

* * *

_Now is where you review and tell me how truly ridiculous this is, okay? I'll see you guys next time!_


	4. Uncooperative Witness

_**Five Ways Anthony DiNozzo probably didn't end up working for NCIS**_

**DISCLAIMER:** Gibbs and Tony… It's such a strange relationship. Even weirder is the "ever since I met Gibbs" response to "how long have you been working for NCIS?". I mean, just what does that mean, do you think?

* * *

**4.** Uncooperative Witnesses do like Anthony DiNozzo, after all.

It had been a crappy week. His two year warranty was almost up, and he'd been passed around almost every department that would have him, so his current lieutenant (Cold Cases… you knew you'd pissed someone off when you were put on cold cases…) was making noises about maybe promoting him back to homicide for some other city, like Boston.

He didn't mind the idea of Boston. It was a little too close to home, and the people that lived there, for his tastes, but what really bothered him was that he seriously doubted Ally McBeal was a real person. Even if she was, she probably didn't wear her skirts that short. And probably didn't take criminal cases.

But his week had been especially bad. He despised his current partner for more reasons than his sloppy work, but had been repeatedly told that he, Tony, was the junior partner, and that meant he should shut up and do what he was told, not question every order he was given.

That was why he had stumbled home, more than a little drunk, at four in the morning after a few hours of only-okay sex, and was now dreaming of Ally McBeal being the defence attorney for one of his cases. It would be such a great episode – Ally takes her first solo homicide case, only to find herself attracted to the lead investigator. Can she separate love and the law?

He was just getting to the part where Ally was trying to control her hormones in the unisex bathroom when something hard, heavy, and very real slammed into his shoulder blade. He had snatched the gun from his bedside table, rolled, and come up kneeling on the opposite side of the bed, gun aimed and ready, before he was awake enough to acknowledge that it had felt like a foot, let alone look for it.

The owner of said foot was definitely not what he'd been expecting.

Instead of a mafia hit man (that had been scary shit, right there), a jealous boyfriend (the girl had totally been worth it), his partner (who shooting was unfortunately not an option), or even a beautifully dangerous woman hell-bent on screwing him senseless (one day…), it was some weird middle-aged guy, staring at him like the biggest lizard on the planet over a huge cup of Hot Fresh Coffee. Tony blinked several times when he didn't see a weapon, but didn't lower his own gun or demand explanation, trying to take stock of the situation.

Judging from the light filtering through his curtains, it was still early morning. He remembered locking his door with one hand as he stripped off his jacket. He'd left it on the floor, along with all the other pieces of his clothing that he'd removed on the way to the bedroom. And now he was crouching in bed, naked, with his gun pointed at some old guy who had mysteriously worked his way into Tony's apartment while drinking what smelled like very strong coffee.

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS," the man greeted blandly, pulling out his ID and flipping it to show his badge and identification.

Tony blinked again. "I have three questions," he said finally, keeping his gun up.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"That wasn't one of them."

"Really."

"First question," he said, struggling to resist the urge to blink. He had a gun in his hands – he couldn't be tired, right now. "How the hell did you get into my locked apartment?"

"Unlocked the door."

He had to blink. "Make it four questions – you have a key to my apartment?"

"Nope."

Tony was not a cop for nothing. He connected the obvious and made a mental note to be pissed off when he finished sobering up. Oh, god, that was it. He had a hangover. Just great. "Don't you believe in ringing? A doorbell or the phone, either way?"

"Much less efficient."

He made another note to be even more pissed off. "Finally, what does a Navy cop want with my sorry ass on a Saturday morning?"

"Ever hear of Jason Tilbury?"

Tony blinked yet again. The name was vaguely familiar, but he'd met a lot of people over the years. "Why?"

"Four years ago, you investigated the death of his brother, Leon, and their parents, Kia and Martin. Jason saw the attack, and apparently you were the only person he'd talk to about it."

After a few seconds, the memory returned, and Tony swallowed, finally lowering his gun and settling back on his heels. He absently drew the sheet up to cover himself and rubbed his forehead with the back of his gun hand. "I remember. But Jason isn't a sailor – he couldn't be more than fifteen by now. What's he got to do with NCIS?"

"His foster family was visiting Washington. Jason went off on his own, wandered into some bad streets, and we think he saw a drug bust go down, including the murder of the petty officer that was buying with bad cash," he explained, and Tony licked his lips, disappointed if nothing else. Jason had been doing pretty okay when he'd last seen him, too. Gibbs didn't acknowledge his reaction, just continued the report. "The kid held it together long enough to call the local cops, who passed it on to us. But as soon as my agent tried to get a statement, he asked for you. Repeatedly. He won't talk to any of my people," Gibbs paused, seeming to roll his entire body before adding, "or me."

Tony gazed at him silently for a moment, his hangover making it all too easy to sympathise. Uncooperative witnesses made everyone bring in another department at least once in their career. It always hurt like a bitch to have to bring in outsiders who might take over the case. But even so…

"So you broke into my apartment, woke me up by _kicking me in the back_ and didn't even bother to say hi before briefing me, all just to get me to come into DC and get a statement?" he asked irritably. He'd do it, but that didn't mean he was any less pissed off.

"No," Gibbs said calmly. "I called your lieutenant and told him you'd be working for me today. He said I could have you as long as I need you. _Then_ I broke into your apartment and woke you up by kicking you in the back," he said, and then turned around. "Get dressed. Your ass is mine, for now, and if I'm gonna be riding it, it had damn well better not be naked."

Tony blushed despite himself, just staring as Gibbs trudged out of the room. It took a second, but then the words registered, and he snorted. It was an interesting way to meet someone, but… hey. At least it was only for a day.

* * *

_I'm sorry this took so long. I just… sorta… kept forgetting to post. But – but I'll still see you next time, right? Right?_


	5. Just for Now

_**Five Ways he probably Didn't get Hired.**_

* * *

**DISCLAIMER**: Well… I think I'm getting a little sad. This is the last one…!

**5.** He probably wasn't Just For Now.

* * *

"_You asked for me, sir?"_

"_Here, read this."_

"_Sir?"_

"_It's a personnel file from the Police Department. What do you think?"_

"_Few reprimands. More closed cases. Young for a detective. Why, he involved in a case?"_

"_Have you replaced Stan Burley yet?"_

"… _I can find my own people, sir."_

"_I'm well aware. But, in the meantime, you'll take the kid."_

* * *

It wasn't getting handed off to another supervisor that pissed him off. To be perfectly honest, he didn't mind it. He'd spent the last two years going from unit to unit, partner to partner, rarely doing the same thing for more than two cases in a row. The longest had been his two months of Transit Detail, but he'd been told to shove off after he single-handedly dismantled one of the largest cab companies in town. They'd been crooked as hell, but apparently they made Baltimore's politics run a whole heap smoother. How politics could happen in cabs was beyond anything but the dirtiest of Tony's thoughts, but… But even so, you shouldn't have openly crooked politics in any part of Washington _D.C._, as far as Tony was concerned, so…

He paused to consider that whole situation for a moment.

Yeah, that was probably the defining moment of 'you really did it this time, DiNozzo' for Baltimore. He should've picked up and left right then and there.

No, what pissed him off was that he wasn't being handed off to a new unit this time, but a new _department_. And he had the nasty feeling it was a 'screw you' demotion, even if he would be getting paid more.

He scowled down at the visitor's card he'd been given, and then up at the elevator doors. He was being made a temporary _fed_. A government lapdog. A play-by-the-rules, news hog of a pretty boy agency waste of space.

Worse, it was for an agency that no one outside the game had even heard of. Internal Affairs of the freaking Navy.

Apparently, from the whole jack-all that his once and future captain had told him, the NCIS major case squad (what was a major case for the navy, anyway? A sailor not knowing how to swim?) had its golden boy suddenly up and transfer without giving his two weeks notice. But, what with the whole War on Terror thing, NCIS was too low on experienced staff to temporarily fill his place while they conducted interviews for his replacement.

So, for reasons Tony really couldn't give a damn about asking when he wouldn't get a straight answer, the director of NCIS had called Baltimore PD's captain and asked if they could spare a man. Since Tony was regularly shuttled around for no reason, of _course_ he could be spared for as long as NCIS wanted him to ride a freaking desk.

Because that, with his two-fingered typing skills, was clearly what Tony was good at.

The doors opened with a ping, and Tony pulled a smile on his face before stepping out. The squad room looked much like every other one Tony had ever worked in, but better equipped. He added that to another reason why he hated feds with a burning passion.

"Um, hey," he said to the first agent he saw. The guy looked vaguely Italian, balding and only a little older than Tony himself, and he raised his eyes from the file in attention. Tony smiled a little wider. "I'm Anthony DiNozzo, Baltimore PD. I've been transferred TAD for an Agent Gibbs?"

"Ahh… Special Agent Gibbs. You'll be filling in for Stan. Sorry to hear that," the guy said with a grin that showed he totally wasn't. He gestured toward a bullpen that lay in the shadow of a blocky staircase. "The guy with the shaggy marine cut that's reaming out Special Agent Parsons."

Tony followed the pointing file to a middle-aged man, standing in the middle of the pen and speaking very quietly to a younger guy that looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Thanks."

"Good luck."

He walked over in time to hear the young guy mutter, "Yes, Boss," but only had time to shield himself with his transfer papers before Gibbs turned his glare on him.

"Anthony DiNozzo, Baltimore PD. I've been transferred –"

"You're late," he snapped, then grabbed a thick folder from what was clearly his own desk (three computer screens on one desk. That hurt. Detectives were lucky to get one per squad room) and thrust it at his chest. "Siddown and start reading."

"Okay," he said, taking the folder and automatically turning right, toward the desk farthest from Bad Haircut.

"Not that one," Gibbs barked, and Tony slowly turned around, looking over at the younger agent and then back at Gibbs. The man scowled. "You take that one." He pointed to the one directly beside his own, which looked like it hadn't been occupied in a long while.

"Okay," he said again, and tossed his bag over behind the desk.

* * *

"_You got_ DiNozzo_?"_

"_You know him?"_

"_Enough to know that I'll never choose between wanting to shoot the son of a bitch or hire him."_

"_That so, Fornell? Well, then maybe I oughta keep him around a while."_

"_Yeah. Knowing DiNozzo, the two've you'll probably end up killing each other. Solve both my problems."_

* * *

He'd been there two days before he figured out the off-limits desk had belonged to 'Stan': the golden boy that had up and left. Stan had lasted longer than any of Gibbs' former underlings, got on great with someone called Abby, and was the only one in the whole building who could listen to something called 'Ducky's Monologues' without twitching. No one was entirely sure why Stan had suddenly left, but apparently the agency was heartbroken.

Tony decided he hated Stan for putting him in such a crappy position, but kept it to himself, because that would probably have been grounds for a lynching.

"Diego!" Gibbs snapped, and Tony looked up from the background he was doing on some Navy Fight Club thing. He looked around, and then decided he was probably supposed to be Diego.

"It's DiNozzo," he corrected, but kept his smile up at Gibbs' glare. "What can I do for you, Special Agent Gibbs?"

"The sister's downstairs. Take her up to the conference room. Make her comfortable, and don't even think about discussing the case."

He kept smiling, because otherwise he might have broken the pen he was holding. He was a highly trained investigator. He was a crime scene sketch expert. He had taken down everything from drug rings to serial killing mobsters. And now he was a glorified intern for the damn feds.

Gibbs slammed his hand down on the desk so hard that Tony had instinctively jumped to his feet before he even registered what the noise had been.

"On it!" he cried, and kept his urge to punch something to himself.

It didn't take him long to find the sister – she was shifting from one foot to the other, nervous as hell just from standing next to the overweight security guards. He nodded to the guards (Ned and Barry, the two best things about NCIS, so far) and held out his hand in greeting.

"Hi, I'm Tony; I work for Special Agent Gibbs."

"M- Mandy Waters," she said, and hesitated another second before taking his hand to shake. He gently pulled it a little closer, so the shake turned into a more gentlemanly (ah, hell, who was he kidding. It was sleek, slimy charm and it worked) greeting as he bowed his head. She blushed, her shoulders rising with her grin. "I – I haven't seen my brother in years, so I don't know how much help I'll be…"

"Oh, Miss Waters, you don't have to worry about that. This is just background, you know? Wasting everyone's time so that when we do do something useful, we have proof that it's useful, and that we did it through completely legal channels," he said, and she laughed.

"Ah, bureaucracy in action."

"You know our pain?"

"I work for the public health system," she explained, and he winced.

"Yikes. You have my pity. Well, come on up and I'll use all my federal agent skills to get you a drink while we waste our time." He rolled his eyes, encompassing both Ned and Mandy in the one action and making them smirk for different reasons. By the time he got her into the conference room and had scrounged up the coffee he'd offered her, she was insisting he call her Mandy and happily rambling.

"Of course, when I said I haven't seen Danny in years, I meant I haven't spent any considerable _time_ with him," she said, taking the coffee and turning her chair toward him as he sat down beside her. "He drops by every time he's in town – usually asking for money of course. I swear, that's all he thinks I'm good for: my pay-packet."

"That's just family," he said, keeping his face sympathetic. "I've got two younger siblings – a brother and a sister. And every time they visit, the first night is fine, they tell me all about how well they're doing and money is furthest thing from their mind, but the next morning, like clockwork, they'll butter me up with a homemade breakfast—"

"—and then it's all promises of interest and 'I'll give it back to you in a week'!" she finished for him, and they both laughed, shaking their heads in shared exasperation. She sat back in her chair, swirling the coffee around her cup. "What I don't understand is why I keep giving it to him. Do you do that?"

"Every time. I tell myself I won't, but –"

"Me too. It's so stupid. You know he owes me almost six thousand dollars?"

"Wow. That's a lot of cash," he said, staring at her, but she just shrugged, spreading her hands hopelessly.

"He's my little brother. And, you know… every since he was sixteen, he's had a gambling problem. I try to make him stop, and get him to go to some… I dunno, rehab or something. I thought the navy would take it out of him, but if anything, it only makes it worse." She met Tony's gaze, looking for the empathy he knew she could find. "And, you know, every time he asks me for money, I know what it's for. I know he's just gambling it away, and I tell myself I shouldn't throw my money away like that, but… If I don't give it to him, he'll get it from someone else. He'll go to a loan shark. I just can't let him do that, you know?"

He nodded, taking a sip of his own coffee. "You think he's already gone to one?"

"I don't know… but every time I see him lately, he's covered in bruises. Split lips, torn knuckles… he's getting into fights with someone, and I don't think the navy tolerates that sort of thing amongst crew members, so…"

"They don't," He was pushing what he knew and could do, here, but he knew enough to bluff and didn't have any reason to obey Gibbs' orders to stay quiet. "That's what we're investigating now, in fact. Some kids are part of this organised fight ring; they put bets on who the winners will be, and…" He trailed off, letting his eyes widen as he looked back at Mandy. "Your brother wouldn't be involved in that sort of thing, though, right?"

She gasped, her hand slapping against her mouth. "I – no, he… oh, my god… do you think?"

He shook his head, feigning disbelief, but movement at the door made him look up. Gibbs was standing in a sort of straight-backed slouch, his head leaning forward as he gave Tony a look that was three parts I-should-kick-your-ass, two parts are-you-done and one part good-work. Tony blinked, and then jumped as if he'd only just noticed Gibbs. "Oh, Mandy, I'm sorry, I completely forgot what we were here for," he said quickly, and scrambled to his feet. "Special Agent Gibbs, this is Mandy Waters. Ma- I mean, Miss Waters, this is Special Agent Gibbs. He just wanted to get some… I'm gonna go," he added to Gibbs, only half-acting now that Gibbs' look had switched back to a glare. He hunched over to touch Mandy's shoulder. "It'll be okay," he murmured, and then hurried for the door.

As he passed, Gibbs raised an eyebrow, and Tony ducked the look. It didn't matter what Gibbs thought of him – he knew he'd just gotten something important.

* * *

"_That Tony's a nice guy."_

"_You think so, Chris."_

"_Yeah. And damn good with witnesses."_

"_You don't say."_

"_Gibbs, you have no idea. I was trying to get some info out of this old guy about his nephew – the kid's stealing credit cards off his superiors. Anyway. Like getting blood from a stone. I leave the guy in the break room so we can both cool off, just as Tony's getting some food. When I come back, Tony's just leaving, and the old guy's staring at this picture of his nephew beside a very hot car. I took the photo, I followed the car back to the cash, I got the kid. All because Tony 'just happened' to mention cars in passing. Takes a good cop to get that kind evidence in five minutes."_

"_You gonna write his resume now, too?"_

"_What?"_

* * *

"Dalton."

"You mean me?" Tony asked, and then flinched when Gibbs' glare was more intense than usual.

"Go see what Abby's got," was the barked order, and so Tony had gone.

From what Pacci (the agent that sat in front of the elevator), Parsons (the poor bastard that had to face Gibbs' wrath every day), and everyone in the break room had said about her, Tony was expecting Abby to be nice, bubbly and hyperactive.

He was not expecting an angry Goth that looked at him like he had come in to her pristine lab trailing mud from head to toe. She had a surprising lack of eyeliner for a Goth, but she still managed to glare at him with dark eyes and make him feel about two feet tall.

"Special Agent Gibbs sent me?" he offered weakly, and the glare got worse. It wasn't even the type of glare that would screw up her face and let him silently laugh at her. It was a heated lack of emotion, as if there was nothing he could possibly do to make her opinion of him become better than the dirt she squished under those gigantic platform heels.

"So you're him," she said coldly.

"Him?"

She gave him a long once-over, came up unimpressed, and took a deep breath before turning to her computer. "I don't have anything for you. Go away so I can focus."

Tony hesitated, weighing his options. Gibbs scared the crap out of him, but this chick was right here, and even if she was tiny, those boots and spikes meant she could probably take him down in two moves, given that he wouldn't be allowed to fight back.

So Tony left… through the door to the rest of lab.

"Hey! I just said there's nothing here for you!" she cried, but he ignored her and bent over what he recognised as Gibbs' evidence bags. If there was nothing he could do to boost her opinion, he damn well wasn't going to bother trying.

"This the dead guy's effects?"

"Yeah," she said irritably, grabbing them away from him. "And they're clean. Nothing on them. Same as the tox' screen. The guy died from the beating, not from any drugs in his system. I will _call Gibbs_ when I have something."

"What about the computer Special Agent Parsons brought in?" he asked, brushing past her to go back into the main room and investigate the computer sitting on her table. "Finger prints?"

"The dead guy's, as you would expect. And I'm still running the hard drive, so you can –"

"What was on it?" he asked. "First base check out, I mean. Games, figures, porn, what?"

She stared at him for a long moment, and he raised his eyebrows, refusing to budge until she gave him something. Immature as it was, he wasn't going back up to Bad Haircut with 'Abby's wouldn't tell me anything'. They stood there for almost a minute, Tony refusing to be cowed by a girl in pigtails and Scuito staring at him like she expected him to back down from only her expression. But he'd faced worse, and she eventually scowled, rolled her eyes and turned back to her computer.

"He was still way better looking," she said, apropos of nothing. "Sergeant Green was like, totally overcompensating for something, because I have never seen one man go to so many manly websites in my whole life. I mean, look at this stuff: body building, guns, wrestling, porn, martial arts…"

"The man clearly had issues," he quipped, and she looked at him like she wasn't sure whether to smile or punch him. He had to struggle to keep his smile up.

That was apparently not a normal reaction.

* * *

"_Okay, seriously? Sending the kid down here to get him out of your hair? Not cool, Gibbs. Not cool at all."_

"_Didn't like him?"_

"_Define 'like' for me."_

"_Abs."_

"_He's… good with evidence. And kinda funny. But he was _totally _a jock in high school, you can so tell, and Stan's better looking, besides."_

"_Huh."_

* * *

Unfortunately, it seemed that 'normal' was not part of the NCIS vocabulary. A week in, when Gibbs told him to go visit autopsy for no particular reason, Tony had jumped at the chance like it was Disneyland. It wasn't until he was in the elevator that he realised, and decided that they must put something in the water. Wanting to visit dead people was definitely not normal.

His theory was only backed up when he walked into autopsy to find the ME happily chatting away to the body he was cutting into.

"No, what I find puzzling is the suddenness of the thing – we were all expecting it eventually, but it was almost as if he just woke up that morning and decided enough was enough. Normally, one would expect –"

"Doctor Mallard?" Tony asked, and the doctor paused with a lung in his hand to look over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Hi, Special Agent Gibbs sent me down here to…" He stopped, suddenly remembering he didn't really have a reason to be down here. "I don't actually know what. I figure I must be pissing him off somehow."

"Most would say that isn't hard, I'm afraid," Mallard said, but he was smiling at the time. "Would I be correct in assuming you to be Anthony DiNozzo, our temporarily assigned detective? I've heard quite a bit about you, my lad."

He blinked. "You have?"

"Mostly flattering, I assure you," he said, and followed it up with another smile before he turned back to weighing the lung.

Tony couldn't help but cringe. "Mostly?"

Mallard read off the lung weight, then eased it down into a pan and turned to look at Tony properly. His once-over was less judgemental than most of the others he'd received so far, and Mallard chuckled when it was done. "You must excuse Abigail; she's had a very hard week and you seem to have been unfortunately placed to be the target of her anger. I do apologise on her behalf."

"Ah, well, I'm guessing there's some sort of reason. Somewhere," he added, wandering over to peer at the body. It was an older man with thinning brown hair. Tony had the strangest flash of his father and so looked up to meet Ducky's gaze instead. "But hey, I'll be gone in a week and she can forget about me… and whatever's really getting to her. All the better, right?"

Mallard gazed at him silently for a moment, an odd smile on his face before he looked down at the body again. "I heard from Agent Gibbs that you belong to the Baltimore crime department, but he didn't say which unit. Care to avail an old man?"

"Nah, but I'll let _you_ in on the secret if you tell me what's going on with this guy," he said, and Mallard chuckled as he lifted out the second lung.

"Your common variety cardiac arrest, I'm afraid. However, he met his demise in the midst of a particularly important meeting with a particularly important admiral, and one can never be too careful," he explained, and Tony nodded, knowing he would want an autopsy in that situation too.

"I'm between units, actually," he said, then grinned at Mallard's curious look. "I came as a general detective, two years ago. But the War on Crime takes its toll, and the city wants specialised detectives. I'm an all-rounder, so I go to whichever unit needs me the most."

"And NCIS needed you more than the Baltimore Police?"

"_Everyone_ needs a little bit of DiNozzo," he said, fluttering his lashes and making Mallard roll his eyes indulgently. Tony then grimaced at some fluid oozing out of Mallard's new incision and turned to lean against the table instead of over it. "But I might go back to cold cases when this is done. Or change units again. Or maybe even check out the options in other cities."

Mallard looked up in interest. "Do you have a city in mind?"

"No… But maybe somewhere where the bad guys actually have a good reason to shoot each other," he said, adding a touch of mock wistfulness that made Mallard smile again.

"Is there ever a good reason?" he asked wryly, and Tony shrugged.

"Better than 'you stole my three-week old crack'."

Mallard opened his mouth in a quick intake of breath, though it seemed more like a silent method of agreement than any reaction. He nodded minutely, clenched his teeth and went back to the body. "From its reputation, Baltimore does seem to have that trend. However, there are just so many reasons men may give to shoot one another. I remember once, when I was stationed in Hollywood –"

It was ten minutes later that Tony realised the story didn't have any foreseeable end, but he didn't have anything pressing to do upstairs, Mallard ("_please_ call me Ducky, dear boy.") was elbow-deep in the man's intestines, and it was kind of interesting hearing about his exploits in the star-ridden streets of LA. And besides, if Gibbs hadn't wanted him down here, he damn well shouldn't have sent him.

* * *

"_He has my vote, Jethro."_

"_Mind telling me what you're talking about, Duck?"_

"_Detective DiNozzo. Yes, he's the most interesting young man that I've met in a long time. Do you know that he comes from a line of bankers? Makes his decision to become a detective particularly interesting, in my opinion, don't you agree?"_

* * *

"DiCaprio!" Gibbs barked, and Tony didn't bother looking up from his report.

"Leonardo, former teen idol and star of Baz Luhrmann's _Romeo and Juliet_," he lazily reeled off, only to jump when something slammed near his feet. He stared up at Gibbs, who looked like kicking the desk had only been a slightly better solution than pouring his ever-present coffee over Tony's head.

"Didn't you hear me? I said gear up! We got a case."

Tony continued to stare at him, even as his hand inched toward the top drawer. "You want me in the field?"

"You are filling in for my senior _field_ agent," he snapped, and Tony was almost ashamed at how quickly he got out his holster and pulled it on. He was not made for desk duty, and god help him, this almost felt like a promotion.

By the end of the case, three days later, Tony was surviving on hazelnut coffee and twenty-minute catnaps, but feeling great nonetheless. It was his first hands-on homicide in almost a year, and damn but if he didn't feel _useful_.

Then a file slapped against the back of his head. "What the hell is this supposed to be?"

He blinked as it dropped onto his desk, not sure whether to object to the tone or the slap. In the end, he decided both would be fruitless. "My report?"

"That's not a report."

"It's not?"

"It's chicken scratch," said Gibbs, and he leaned down to tap the file with two fingers. "Make it legible."

He blinked again, but eventually couldn't help himself. "Do we really have the six hours it'll take for me to figure out how to turn on the computer and type it?"

"Here's a hint: your computer's already on," he drawled, but the scowl was tempered by a slight upturn of his lip, and Tony grinned, recognising a smirk when he saw one.

He decided to consider it a triumph.

* * *

"_A word, Gibbs?"_

"_You've got two minutes."_

"_Why'd you get DiNozzo to sketch the scene? I'm the former Crime Scene Investigator – he's just a fill-in."_

"_You really want to try that specialist bullshit with me, Parsons?"_

"_Just how long're we keeping that NYPD-dropout, anyway? Doesn't his own department want him?"_

* * *

At the end of his third field case, DiNozzo found himself sitting alone at one in the morning, eating pizza and procrastinating about finishing his report.

It had almost been a month. He was starting to miss the coffee mug he'd left in the cold case room, awaiting his return. He had a hotel that he regularly booked into because the hour-long commute to-and-from work cut into the little sleep he got. He'd already dated three extremely hot special agents and had the phone numbers of several more.

Gibbs strode back into the bullpen without acknowledging his presence, but Tony watched in thoughtful silence as the man sat down and began scribbling all over whatever he had gone to get.

The paycheque was nice. He did like getting that extra cash in his bank account, but most of the extra money went to the hotel or petrol he had to use to work here. Temporary work was totally not worth the hassle.

After a few moments of contemplation, Tony picked up the pizza box and extended it in silent offering. Gibbs looked up, surprised, then nodded and reached over to pick out the largest remaining slice. He smirked at Tony's mock outrage. "I'm sure you'll live, DiNozzo."

"It's the principle of the thing," he muttered, pouting for show as he yanked the box away again and put it as far away as possible. Gibbs busied his mouth with the slice to avoid smiling, but the words finally registered and Tony blinked. "Hey… you got my name right."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "I can go back to Diego if you'd prefer."

"Well, it's got a certain Spanish flair," he joked, and Gibbs' eyes were smiling even if the rest of him wasn't. Tony wiggled his fingers over the box as he picked out his next slice, not even thinking as he asked, "How are the interviews going?"

"The case is over," Gibbs pointed out, before tilting his head back and managing to fit a full third of the slice in his mouth. Tony had to admire the technique for a second before speaking again.

"No, I mean the real interviews. For… whatsisname's replacement," he said, gesturing at the Untouchable Desk. Gibbs glanced at it while he chewed, and Tony swallowed his mouthful before continuing. "Not that I don't love the commute and everything, but Abby _smiled_ today and it really freaked me out."

Gibbs looked at him sideways, and Tony shrugged helplessly.

"I've gotten used to her threatening to kill me without leaving any forensic evidence," he confessed. "I figure I should get outta here before she decides my insides wouldn't make good wall paint for her lab."

Gibbs continued staring at him for a few moments, chewing silently. It wasn't the lizard look, with the extended neck and weird eyes, which Tony had figured out meant he was letting you dig yourself into a hole while he imagined how you'd look on his barbeque, but rather the slightly irritated look he got when he couldn't figure something out. Tony grimaced when he realised he'd started to figure out Gibbs' expressions.

"Oh, come on," he said, when no answer was forthcoming. "Tell me you've at least picked out the candidates. When do I go back to Baltimore?"

"Gimme some more of that pizza," he said, and Tony rolled his eyes before handing over the box. Gibbs didn't look at him as he selected his next slice and handed the box back. "Don't you have a report to write?"

He shrugged and went back to staring at his half-finished report.

* * *

"DiNozzo!"

Tony flinched, gripping the strap of his new backpack to keep it from flying behind his desk. He didn't otherwise move, but turned his head to see Gibbs trotting down the stairs from the higher levels, file in hand.

"Special Agent Gibbs?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Uhh… getting to work?" he suggested, but didn't properly turn around until Gibbs had started stalking toward the bullpen. "Why, you got a case?"

"That's not your desk," he said, and Tony blinked, turning in place to look at it. It sure as hell looked like… oh. Oh, okay. He could get 'subtlety'.

"You know, it wouldn't have killed you to tell me the TAD was over last night," he said, pulling the backpack up and opening it to get his files. "Seriously, I really would have liked to have slept –"

"Shut up," Gibbs told him, and then shoved his handful of papers at him. "Siddown and sign those."

Tony stared at him blankly. "But you just told me –"

"Sit," snapped Gibbs, pointing at the Untouchable Desk, "and sign."

Tony continued staring at him, but all he got was a returning stare, and Gibbs was much scarier than he could hope to be. Without turning away, Tony did several quick side-steps to sink down into the Untouchable Chair. Only then did Gibbs move on to his own desk, and Tony was able to look at the papers he'd been given.

He'd assumed they would be the contracts to end this Temporary Assignment, but after reading the first sentence, his head jerked up to stare at Gibbs again.

"These are –"

"Get a new apartment. I don't have time to waste on you commuting across the city to get to a crime scene."

"I don't –"

"Or would you rather go back to chasing drug dealing cabbies?" asked Gibbs, and Tony blinked, picking up a pen almost unconsciously.

"Well, no, but –"

"Then shut up and sign the damn contract."

"My captain will –" He stopped when Gibbs shifted in his seat, leaning over his desk and fixing him with The Stare. The one that promised pain and, more concerning, abject humiliation if his orders were not followed in the next two seconds. Tony swallowed.

"On it, Boss."

* * *

_Ta-dah! That makes five! It's been fun, people, and I'd love to play in your sandbox again sometime, but for now, I think I'm done. I'd love to hear from you, whether it's to tell me you loved it, hated it, or really didn't care either way, and maybe I'll see you again. Later days, everybody!_


End file.
